


All the Bitty One-Shots

by JoifulDreaming



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24240703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoifulDreaming/pseuds/JoifulDreaming
Summary: This is a place to put things that are a bit too short to warrant a space of their own. Rating will vary, work rating to cover my bases.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Shared Stillness

Their company has long-since gone: The kids had left early, before the drinking had begun. Anathema and Newt begged off after having one, for thinly-veiled reasons (amorous, probably; newlyweds). Tracy had pulled Shadwell away before he could start counting everyone’s nipples- again. Soon it was only Crowley and Aziraphale, as was customary. And, as was customary, they made their way through the bottles of wine until they found themselves warm and relaxed. There was no need for more beyond that now that the world was safe again, at least for the time being.

Soft piano plays through the silence, barely breaking it, from Crowley’s phone on the floor next to him. Aziraphale is propped up on pillows, sitting on the sofa with a book under his nose. His hand has drifted down to stroke gently through Crowley’s short hair. Crowley, for his part is curled up on the floor beside him, head pressed heavily against Aziraphale’s knee. It’s a sweet, slow, sleepy hour and he drifts along with it.

This is the reward of centuries of waiting: the shared stillness.


	2. Entwined

Fingers entwined, clasping tightly. 

Foreheads pressed together, breath falling fast on faces. Too much breath for kisses now. 

A whimper and a sigh; a hand sliding up a side, to gently caress a pink cheek. Which hand? Which cheek? Were they not one now? Did it matter? 

A gasping prelude to shattering together, a precipice. A place to long to stay, even though they cannot. 

A breath shared and held for a second’s eternity before it’s released; a moment of agonized pleasure. 

Smiles, damp eyes, lazy limbs. 

Drifting off to dreams, fingers still entwined.


	3. Chapter 3

To the outside observer, Crowley still seemed focused on the play that had just ended in front of them. It was the glasses, really. A person who had not spent thousands of years observing him might have difficulty knowing when he was paying attention while he wore them. But, Aziraphale could tell with ease.

To Aziraphale, Crowley showed interest with his entire body. Sometimes, seeing his eyes was a little bit too much (in the best of ways!) because they truly were windows to his inner world. That inner world was so full of adoration for Aziraphale himself, and wasn’t that something to finally be able to admit and enjoy?

There was an air about him, always, of purposeful nonchalance. Like he was ready to spring into action. Tense, but trying to hide it, even now that they had won. That slipped away when he was asleep. His eyebrows relaxed, his jawline softening. 

And, well, he’d melted down in to the chair, hadn’t he? Aziraphale supposed he should be angry. The humans in the play really had worked hard, some of them portraying actual emotion! But, he found he couldn’t be angry because he felt so very, very soft gazing at his beloved. This was something that he got to see; he got to be behind the scenes now. Crowley trusted him enough to fall asleep in public beside him, knowing that if anything went awry he was safe.

Aziraphale slipped his hand over Crowley’s knee and squeezed gently.

“V’ry nice play, loved the talking,” Crowley grumbled, sitting up as straight as he ever did.

“Mmhmm, I’m sure.” Aziraphale rubbed the side of his knee, “Let’s go home, love.”

“Home,” Crowley smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

“Y’could try sleepin’ in once in a while…”

“Don’t grouse. I’ve brought you tea.”

Crowley cracked an eyelid towards the bedside table. Yes, there was a still-steaming mug there. How long it had been there, he couldn’t say. Aziraphale was an extraordinarily early riser. He ignored the tea and snuggled up next to the fully-clothed leg stretched out beside him. No need to look, he knew Aziraphale would have a book in hand and a cup of cocoa beside him.

“Buh, how’my s’pposed to ravish my’husband if he goes an’ gets’all dressed?” He was already halfway back to sleep, mumbling against Aziraphale’s thigh. It really was his favorite place, that thigh. For a number of reasons. Right now, namely, that it was so soft and cushy. Best. Pillow. Ever. Well, perhaps second to resting his sleepy head on Aziraphale’s belly.

“I do think you’d have to be more awake to ‘ravish’ me, darling.” Fingers drifted down from above, combing through his hair. He was losing the fight to remain conscious. Not that he was fighting very hard. 

“m’be later, then.”

“Quite right.”


	5. Chapter 5

There’s an old grandfather clock ticking away somewhere in the shop. It’s running just fine, but time seems to slow like syrup around them; somehow every tock seems a bit further away from the previous tick. They’re drifting, both lost in the moment- aware and unaware, drifting and content.

Aziraphale had learned to braid as soon as he saw the humans invent it. He spent centuries with itchy fingers, longing to run them through Crowley’s hair. To adorn it with flowers or jewels as he braided it. His eyes had known its softness long before his hands ever seemed to dare. He liked his friend’s shorter styles just fine- they suited his cheekbones- but he missed watching the drift and flutter of his longer hair.

The longing was gone now, and yet still here. The difference was: now he could indulge it. After the not-end of the world, one of the first signs that Crowley had begun to relax was that he grew out his hair again. With every new inch, Aziraphale ached to touch it, but was afraid to say. Then one night Crowley had shown up at the shop, sprawling on the sofa in the back as was his habit. His wavy red locks had grown past his shoulder blades. They glinted in the low light of the shop as he flicked them behind him, over the top of the couch. Aziraphale had walked by and, almost completely without thought, ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair from nape to ends. And, unexpectedly, Crowley had melted down into the couch with a long, happy sigh. A delightful surprise.

Now they sat, Aziraphale with his back to the arm of the sofa. Crowley is tucked, facing away between his legs, elbows on his knees. The clock ticks slowly by as they both enjoy the twining, untwining, and twining again.


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley woke slowly, feeling the press of blankets above him first. Then the gentle heat radiating from his lover behind him. Followed a few moments later by a tickling of fingers along his thigh. He parted his legs slowly on a sigh.

“Good morning, dear boy,” a puff of breath behind his ear followed by a soft kiss. Aziraphale always woke before him and, really, that was okay. He tended to make it more than okay.

“hmm.” It was early, words were difficult. Aziraphale’s fingers had found their goal, found him already wet and ready.

“What were you dreaming about, darling, that you’re already in such a state, hmm?” Kisses and now nips trailed down Crowley’s neck.

“Oh, Angel, you. I’s dreaming about you.” Crowley parted his thighs further now, opening himself up completely and was rewarded with the questing fingers slipped easily inside him and curled.

“What about me?” Aziraphale sounded a little breathy in his ear and it thrilled him with a tiny zing of power. Years of only dreaming, and never sharing his dreams. The freedom to do so was heady, if still a little strange.

“Nugh, I was dreaming of your mouth on me…” His hips were thrusting for more under than blanket.

“None of that now, dear, relax. You know I’ve got you.” Teeth, Aziraphale’s teeth along the shell of his ear sent shivers racing down his spine. He knew his lover could feel them, as close as they were pressed together. “Would you like me to use my mouth now?”

“No! … no, this’good.” The fingers were thrusting and now Aziraphale’s thumb was pressing gentle circles to his clit. “Please. Please don’t stop!”

“Never, love, I’ve got you. What did I do in your dream, hmm? Did I fuck you with my tongue?” In demonstration said tongue was now wrapping around his earlobe before lips enclosed it and sucked softly. “I do so love the taste of you, Crowley, I like that it lingers on my tongue long after you’ve finished.”

A long whine prompted the fingers to speed up, to press more firmly until Crowley’s orgasm broke over him, his body going tight and then loose and liquid in his lover’s arms. Aziraphale’s fingers lingered inside him, gently, enjoying the small twinges of leftover pleasure.

“I do love you in whatever form you choose, but this one has it’s own special perks.”

“Hmm…”

“Would you like another?”


	7. Chapter 7

Fingers, gently plying soft, red hair. It has long ago gone in every conceivable direction, sticking up and flattened in to startling angles. The gentle hmms and purrs from the head snuggled into his lap convey that the mess is inconsequential. Beside him his cocoa still curls with heat despite the fact that it’s sat there, half drank, for the last hour. Warm cocoa in exchange for pettin’s? A more than fair trade. He gets the best of all things in this.

***

At this point he’s so melted, honestly he’s not sure where the sofa ends and Aziraphale’s lap begins let alone what all his sprawled limbs are getting up to. All is warm and soft around the edges, his mind drifting comfortably between waking and sleeping. The only connection to the outside world is fingers, gently plying soft, red hair (and the belief that cocoa never goes cold).


	8. Chapter 8

The wine bottle has fallen over, leaking red into the grass. They don’t notice.

The nibbles, strewn over plates: tiny sandwiches and pastries and fruits and cheese. Some of them with bits missing. He’ll later comment that it’s a pity, but he doesn’t notice now.

The tartan throw is crumpled beneath them. They’re clutching one another- half on the grass, though thankfully uphill from the red river.

Light glints off smiling blue-green eyes. How do eyes smile? They twinkle in the dappled sunlight that makes it through the tree above them. They’ve long forgotten the tree, the sun. There’s nothing else in the world, least of all stars or picnic baskets.

Soft sighs on the gentle breeze, softer fingers tangled in red hair. Red that matches the unnoticed river downhill. Red that compliments eyes squeezed shut. It’s too much, too good- one sense has to shutter for the others to thrive.

Centuries in the making, but gentle in the taking. All the time. All the time in the world.


End file.
